


Triangle, dissected

by Woldy



Category: Night Watch - Sarah Waters
Genre: Bombing, F/F, Infidelity, Love Triangles, POV Alternating, Retrospective, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A triangle has no beginning and no end, does it? Just three interlocking lines; three lives woven together until you can't pry them apart again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triangle, dissected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



> I fear that this has more angst than you wanted, Pasiphile, but I loved the idea of exploring the triangle and I hope you enjoy it. I certainly can't write like Sarah Waters, but I hope that this story preserves some of the style from the novel and BBC film adaptation. Many thanks to Thursday Next for the fabulous beta work!

1\. Kay

A triangle has no beginning and no end, does it? Just three interlocking lines; three lives woven together until you can't pry them apart again. It's sharp, jagged, but there's no clear starting point.

Even without a beginning, there is still a story to be told. So I'll start where I can - prying away at the edges and trying to get a grip. A grip on what? Memories, words, the smell of the air the morning after a raid. A grip on -

_rubble. Fallen beams and plaster and dust, so much dust, fires burning just a few houses away and - her. Helen. I can hardly believe that she's there unharmed in the wreckage, so pink and beautiful. I can't even see a bruise on her._

_She's a miracle._

_That's what I tell Julia. She's sitting at her desk, skirt creased, fingers stained with ink, and her lips tighten at the word. For a long moment she doesn't speak._

_"You're a veritable knight in shining armour, Kay. I know that's what you always wanted to be." Her voice is dry; I suppose that's her writer's distance again. That's the excuse she uses._

_"It's not about me," I say, so tired that I'm swaying slightly, but still giddy with the impossible luck of the night, "We're helping people."_

_"Yes," Julia says, pushing her notebook away and standing up. "I know you believe that."_

_I watch her walk away, and listen to the floorboards creaking as she climbs the stairs. It's not until she reaches the top that that I find my voice again._

_"People are dying. We're not just characters in your story, Julia. You can't scribble things out and rewrite to make people come alive again."_

_I wait, but she doesn't bother to reply. We've fought before, but this now is different. It's not me she's insulting now, it's my miracle: the miracle of Helen under the rubble, so fragile and precious._

_The image of Helen is fixed in my mind, and it's almost as if Julia doesn't want me to save her. I suppose Julia wants me to do something stodgy and respectable, even if that means Helen lies until she goes cold and limp. This is the moment I start to hate her._

_Two storeys above me, the bedroom door snaps shut._

I'm telling the story backwards again. Starting at the ending. Julia once said I couldn't tell a story to save my life: "You're so tediously literal, Kay. You don't believe in anything that you can't touch."

Perhaps she's right. I'd rather be practical and literal than live in a web of fictions and self-delusions the way Julia does.

I'll keep things concrete: _The first time Julia kisses me, she tastes of Scotch. It's after midnight, and the street is deserted. I offer to walk her home. One of the great advantages of trousers and sturdy shoes is that one can walk comfortably. Now, standing outside her imposing brick house, her high heels put her several inches above me and she looks even taller with her hair piled beneath the silk scarf. I'm not used to tilting my head back._

_She turns away from the kiss, teeth catching at my ear. "Are you coming up?"_

_"I don't want to presume-"_

_"Don't tell me you're too much of a gentleman to let me have you, Kay. I've heard that you're good. I've been-" she licks a hot line down the side of my neck, making the hairs stand on end "looking forward to this."_

_"I don't-" Before I can say that I don't make love to people casually like this, without meaning it, she kisses me again._

_"You should," she says, when we come up for air._

_Holding my gaze, she takes a step backwards, then another. Her heel bumps the step to her house, and she takes the stairs slowly, backwards, never breaking eye contact._

_"You're going to disappoint a lady? That's not the gallant Kay I've heard about."_

_For a moment I waver, looking at the swell of her breasts under the blouse and the taut line of her legs in the tailored wool trousers. Then I offer a smile, and step away._

_"If you're serious, ask me again. I'm not going anywhere."_

Julia never forgave me for turning her down, but it meant she couldn't forget me either. Perhaps if I'd followed her upstairs and spread her naked on the bed she'd have got bored and not asked again. Perhaps she wouldn't have pursued Helen. But that's not the story I'm telling.

What I'm certain of is that her mouth tasted of Scotch, all soft lips and sharp teeth. Julia asked me to make love to her, and I walked away. Perhaps we were over before we began.

 

2\. Helen

I've always believed in love at first sight. It's easy to be cynical about relationships, and Julia says all sorts of clever, condescending things, but she doesn't know better than you or me. Love is like magic - it's there in a flash, or it's not.

For me, there was a flash and then darkness. When the beams and plaster were pulled off me, I couldn't look away from those dark eyes and pale face beneath the helmet. It was love. Until she spoke, I didn't even realise she was a woman. Somehow, it didn't matter.

Looking back, it's odd how much I don't recall. There must have been air raid sirens, shouting, and ambulance engines. All I remember is Kay: her eyes, her voice, the weight of her hand in mine.

There's no making sense of love. If anyone can claim expertise then it's me, the woman responsible for fifty-three marriages, but I can tell you that for all the folders of height, weight, age there's no formula to predict a match. A man can come in insisting he wants a twenty-year-old blonde without glasses, and he'll end up happy with a brunette of thirty-three who wears specs thicker than a milk bottle. We don't choose who we fall for.

At first it was magic between me and Kay, but over time you see beneath the surface. Kay is awfully glamorous from a distance with those long legs and smart uniform, but she's hopeless at home. She can dress a wound, but she can't keep the place tidy. She can put out incendiaries, but if you found us an egg then she wouldn't be able to boil it.

_"Come on, Kay. It's not difficult. There's an onion, some lard in the fridge, and a tin of-"_

_"I'm not saying I can't do it, I just don't want to."_

_"Everyone's got to eat."_

_"I eat. I just don't cook."_

_"You barely eat. I can see your ribs."_

_"There's a war on. I hardly think my ribs worry anyone."_

_"I worry. If you're going out in an ambulance then you need to eat more than tea and toast."_

_Kay raises her chin stubbornly, feet planted wide, arms at her sides like a soldier on parade. Here, in the kitchen, there's something ridiculous about it._

_"You only refuse to cook because you think you're too good for woman's work," I say, and regret it almost instantly when Kay's eyes startle wide._

_"And I suppose you think I only drive the ambulance as a substitute for a pair of testicles," she snaps, and turns on her heel, crisp as a drill sergeant, before marching away._

_She must have changed her shifts, because I barely saw her for three days. I was so angry by the time she returned that I couldn't bring myself to apologise._

Honestly, it's tedious to relive all the details of it now; the things we bickered over, the times we made up, that night I found her weeping in the rubble over shreds of my pyjamas. Recriminations make no difference, anyway. Love isn't rational. It isn't even moral.

Love is like magic. It appears like a rabbit from a hat, and it can be gone in an instant. In the end, with Kay, that's what happened.

I don't want to dwell on it, because any story is depressing if you tell it like that. All we can do is enjoy what we have, for as long as it lasts.

Here's the way I like to remember her:

_I wake up, blinking in the sunlight, to the sight of Kay leaning over me. She looks so official in that uniform, all slim hips and starched collar. This close I can smell the sharp tang of soap and disinfectant._

_"How was the shift?"_

_"Fine. Quiet," she says, leaning in to brush a kiss to my cheek, and I close my eyes to savour the sensation. "How did you sleep?"_

_"Well," I say, stretching out my arms. "I slept all night. It's such a treat."_

_"I've got another treat for you."_

_"Oh?"_

_Kay produces a tin of condensed milk from behind her back. "I had just enough coupons."_

_"You're wonderful," I declare, beaming at her, and Kay smiles back._

_"I promised to take care of you," she says, eyes soft, "and I will."_

_"I know I'm safe with you," I say, reaching for her._

_"Always." I tug her hand, and she leans down to kiss me again._

_"Now," I say, breathing the words against her mouth as I pull her towards the bed. "Be with me now."_

__

3\. Julia

I've never been any good at love stories. They're so predictable, because that's what women are supposed to write, supposed to read, and we all know the ending: woman marries man. I've got no interest in that, on the page or off.

All the most interesting stories involve suspense. Who will be the next victim? Who's the villain? What are the tiny clues that give it away?

If you ask me, reliving a relationship is a like performing an autopsy: a clinical dissection to find exactly where it all went wrong. Is there a knife protruding from the chest, or bruises at the neck? Was it a brain tumour? A heart attack?

I'll be systematic and start at the head: Helen's pretty curls and oh-so-easily-shocked eyes. With those looks she was born to be the innocent, tragically short-lived centre of a murder novel. She's the woman who walks into the dark building against her better judgement - literally. I should know, because I tempted her there.

So: blonde hair, soft eyes, full pink lips. Smooth neck, even shoulders, milky unblemished skin on her breasts and belly. On the surface, you wouldn't know that anything was amiss. You have to look closer to see the evidence quietly build into a pattern that's more sinister. To be a good storyteller, you have to see the skull beneath the skin.

_Helen grabs my wrist. "You do love me, don't you?"_

_It's a breezy spring day, ground soft beneath our feet and sparrows whirling overhead. A few yards away a mother and her children are watching the ducks in the pond._

_I tilt my head. "Have I given you reason to doubt it?"_

_"I want to be sure," she says, eyes fixed on mine. Her eyes are almost too big, as if she wants to devour me with them. Her palm is clammy._

_"I don't give romantic declarations on command."_

_"But you do? You love me?"_

_"You know the answer."_

_"Why can't you say it?"_

_I look away, at the new leaves rustling overhead, at the washed-out sun. "I wouldn't be a writer if I did what was expected."_

_Her grip doesn't loosen, fingers tight around the bone of my wrist._

_"Helen..." I frown at her, and she releases me. We resume walking across the grass. On a clear day you can see St Paul's from the top of the hill._

_As we reach the summit, Helen hooks her arm through mine. "I'll get it out of you," she says, leaning close to my ear, "whether you like it or not"._

The end of our relationship was far less interesting than a murder. No doubt Kay would like to think that she was a slow poison, wearing Helen down with those mournful remarks and betrayed expressions. Honestly, that didn't make a damned bit of difference. Helen has a strong stomach for other people's discomfort.

No, this was death by natural causes: she had a weak heart from the beginning. Helen's the most naive and sentimental femme I ever knew, not that she'd accept the label. From the moment I met her, Helen was more frightened by groups of lesbians than she was by doodlebugs. What I initially mistook for courage was really a failure to weigh the risks.

_Bang!_

_The whole building quivers, beams shuddering above our heads and raining dust onto us. After a moment, Helen's smile returns, eyes bright._

_"These moments feel like forever," she whispers. "Time stretches out when I'm-"_

_Bang! The light flashes orange beside the window, and Helen shifts nearer to me._

_"It's silly to whisper, I suppose," she says, nose brushing my neck. "Nobody can hear us."_

_"Nobody," I agree, turning my head to kiss her._

_Helen's mouth opens hungrily, hands catching the back of my sweater. I palm her thigh through the tweed skirt and she gasps, breathy and greedy, pressing herself closer._

_"With that going on, they won't hear you scream," I murmur._

_"Is that what you want? Shall I scream your name?"_

_I kiss her again, pushing her skirt upwards and then grazing my nails up her thigh. Helen whimpers, spreading her legs wider, her fingers clutching my back._

_Outside London is burning again, but in the dusty darkness it's easy to slip my hand up her skirt and beneath her knickers, moving warm and wet._

_"Oh, please!"_

_"I thought you were going to scream?"_

_"I don't know if I - oh! I've never-"_

_"Give in to pleasure, Helen. Don't let her make you into a little housewife."_

_"Don't let's talk about her!"_

_"Then say my name instead," I tell her, my lips against her neck, one arm around her waist holding her up as the other burrows between her thighs._

_"Julia," she breathes, at first quietly, as if she's unsure that she has permission._

_"That's right," I encourage, and her head falls back, throat bared._

_"Julia! Oh, oh - Julia!"_

_If Kay was outside, carrying people away from those destroyed houses, then I wonder if she would have heard my name over the incendiaries and sirens. I wonder if, even then, she would have stopped._


End file.
